Incitement (10 page)

The traffickers lived like kings, enjoying the very best Prague had to offer. The judiciary were in their pocket. They flaunted their extravagant lifestyle, secure in the knowledge that no one
could threaten them. It hadn’t been difficult to find a disillusioned narcotics officer who had finally had enough. A generous supplement to a modest salary was all it had taken. Detailed
reports of the main traffickers’ movements were produced and, based on them, Larsen had chosen Nisret Dobroshi as the target.

Dobroshi kept a beautiful young Czech girl in the upmarket apartment building and got away to visit her as often as work and domestic arrangements permitted. The two subordinate bodyguards
always waited in the lobby while Bajo ascended the stairs with his charge. Larsen knew from previous reconnaissance that Bajo waited in the hallway outside the apartment. He took a deep breath and
exhaled, finding a calm centre. In many ways this was the pivotal operation, more risky than anything that had gone before, but if he succeeded it would tip the scales. He focused, moving himself
to a place where he would be able to do what was required.

“We will train you, harder than you ever believed possible and teach you all there is to know about weaponry and tactics,” the drill sergeant told them.

The sixteen new recruits stood on the tarmac at Flyvestation Aalborg as the driving rain beat down on them and the incessant wind howled. Although the sergeant spoke loudly they had to
strain to hear him as the gusts whipped his words away. “Many of you have had extensive training already. We will add our experience to help mould you,” he continued. “But all of
this will count for nothing, if you lack one thing.”

The recruits stood rock-steady, eyes firmly locked straight ahead.

“Can you tell me what this thing is?” he asked one of them.

An uncomfortable pause then the nervous attempt at an answer. “Courage?”

The sergeant snorted dismissively and turned on his heel, pacing away from them. Coming around to face them he delivered the answer. “Willingness.” The sergeant let it sink in
before continuing. “Most individuals will split every challenge they are faced with into three categories. Things they’re happy to do, things they do not want to do but are willing to
suffer and finally those things they would never consider,” he explained. “Like a traffic-light, green, yellow and red. If a person is willing to attempt something, really attempt it,
with every fibre concentrated on success, this is green. But if he perceives it to be too dangerous, too far beyond his capabilities or if he merely makes a half-assed attempt to save face, he is
in the red zone.” He scanned the line, examining individual recruits.

“Many people will say with total conviction they could not kill another human being. Put these same people in a position where someone is threatening their child and watch what
happens. What’s changed? Their willingness to act! Circumstances have conspired to push their green zone far beyond its perceived limits.”

A smile broke across his craggy features.

“We will repeatedly put you in situations where you will become accustomed to diminishing that red zone. We will challenge you, again and again. Most of you will not last. Those that
do will understand all about willingness.” He nodded, almost to himself. “Those that do will be Jægere.”

This was green.

Using the key he had obtained, Larsen entered the basement’s laundry room via an exterior door. The internal door to the laundry led to the rear stairway, which converged with the main
staircase between the lobby and the first floor. To protect Dobroshi properly, one of the bodyguards should have been positioned on this landing while the other watched the elevator. But months of
the same routine, in a city that held no surprises, had bred complacency.

Once he got to the second level, he pressed for the elevator to climb the last couple of floors. The lift door was an old trellised affair that ran up the centre of the staircase, allowing
people on the stairs to see in. He assumed a stooped posture and coughed hoarsely. Combined with the threadbare clothing, white wig and pale make-up, he looked like one of the many callers to the
retired jeweller living across from Dobroshi’s mistress – elderly, decrepit and unthreatening. Bajo stared intently at the lift’s occupant through the grille while it ascended.
Unlike his subordinates downstairs, he was a veteran with years of hard-earned experience and could not be easily circumvented. Everything depended on overcoming him without alerting Dobroshi. The
intelligence Larsen had been given did not specify Bajo’s proficiency with arms, although Larsen assumed he was a rated marksman. What Larsen was aware of, though, was the man’s ability
in unarmed combat, enhanced by his prodigious size and strength. He was perfectly suited to the role of close-quarter protection. His gaze never left the old man who stepped from the elevator,
wrestled to close the door and, still struggling to regain his breath from the effort, shuffled down the hall.

Larsen focused totally on his laboured progress and it took him ten seconds just to cover the short distance to the bodyguard. Once Larsen passed him, he sensed the big man relax ever so
slightly, letting some of the tension ease from his frame. The surprise was total when the bent-over figure twisted back fluidly and drove the knife up towards his throat. Years of combat drills
enabled Bajo to react quickly enough to prevent a fatal strike and he managed to deflect the knife’s arc with his extended forearm. The blade lodged painfully in his shoulder inches from his
neck. Normally, in this kind of confrontation, he would have drawn the assailant close where he could use his natural advantages to quickly end matters but the risk of the attacker worsening the
injury was too great. He struck out at his assailant’s chest with the heel of his left hand in an attempt to drive him back and create some distance between them. Larsen managed to turn his
torso enough to prevent the blow from landing with full impact and was only knocked back a half step. Even so, the effect of the partial blow was enough to convince him that he could not survive a
protracted struggle in such a confined area. Bringing his left knee up to waist height he struck out and down with his foot, driving it in viciously just above the bodyguard’s right knee.
Bajo’s leg collapsed and he crumpled forwards towards the floor. As he fell Larsen grasped the hilt of the knife with both hands and with all the strength he could muster drove the blade
through the heavy muscle across the throat. The blade sliced through the larynx, severing his opponent’s air supply abruptly.

The dead bodyguard tumbled to the floor and Larsen sagged against the wall, battling to control his breathing. He pushed himself up, aware that time was short. Removing the suppressor-fitted
Glock from his coat, he used a second key to quietly enter the apartment. Any concerns that the struggle might have disturbed the apartment’s occupants were put to rest by the sounds
emanating from the bedroom off the hallway. He pulled the dead bodyguard’s heavy bulk inside the apartment before slowly opening the bedroom door to reveal the sight of Dobroshi, a million
miles away, eyes closed, lost in pleasure as the girl straddling him worked industriously. Though her back was to him, she must have sensed his presence because she stiffened in mid-motion,
disturbing her lover’s bliss. The trafficker opened his eyes and looked as if he had trouble believing what he saw. Before he could command himself to move, Larsen shot him twice, once in the
head and once in the chest. The girl shrieked and tried to push herself off the bucking corpse but her hands slipped on the blood-slicked torso. She inhaled sharply, gathering herself for a
powerful scream. Larsen quickly grabbed her and placed a hand over her mouth. Stepping close, he applied pressure to the base of her throat. Once she slipped into unconsciousness, he bound and
gagged her, leaving him free to complete his work undisturbed.

Cervantes was quite satisfied with how well things had gone. Three attacks in four days, all carried out faultlessly, creating exactly the effect Madrigal had wished for. The
effort involved in exercising such control would not have been wasted on Lubomir Uka, whom he had travelled to the Macedonian city of Skopje to meet. He didn’t think his optimism about
reaching a settlement was misplaced; while there was no doubting the Kosovar’s ability to use violence when it was needed, it had taken more than mere bloodlust to get him to where he was
today. Uka kept a close eye on all areas of their operations and stamped out any activity he viewed as inconsistent with the long-term goals he had defined. While he may have been willing to
approve some speculative forays against the Alliance, Cervantes could not see him pursuing it any further. The Kosovar chief had to see that a continuation down the road they were on would be
disastrous for everyone. This was not to say he wasn’t nervous; a certain amount of negotiation and diplomacy were still required.

He was relieved of his firearm before being granted access. His companions were instructed to wait in the courtyard outside while he headed in alone. Regardless of his confidence concerning his
task, he felt quite vulnerable when he was led into the darkened study. Uka, seemingly oblivious to his arrival, sat behind a large desk studying a photograph under a lamp, which provided the sole
source of illumination. Guards stood around the perimeter of the room as motionless as statues. He yearned to get this over with and his discomfort grew as the silence dragged on. Finally, Uka
placed the photograph face down on the desk and looked up at him. In his late forties with dark skin and a slightly receding hairline, he possessed a natural air of authority.

“I’ve been told that you want to deliver a postscript to your actions?”

Cervantes found something in the casual tone of the question off-putting but there was no time to dwell on it. “Lubomir, we regret the action we’ve been forced to take but we had no
alternative. We want to put this dispute behind us and resume working together for mutual prosperity. I hope you’ll see how sincere we are from the restraint we exercised.” He had
mentally rehearsed what he wanted to say again and again but now, that the time had come, he was annoyed with himself. Rather than the calm measured delivery he had hoped for, the words had tumbled
out.

“Restraint? Please elaborate, so that I’m sure I can draw full comfort from this control you exercised.”

He recognised that Uka was determined to make him spell it out and in the process make it as uncomfortable as possible. He was obviously put out over the targets they had hit and would not admit
their relative unimportance. He hadn’t expected such petulant behaviour; the Kosovar had always struck him as a wholly pragmatic man. Still, if a satisfactory resolution required his dignity
to be slightly compromised, he could deal with that.

“We know that the attacks caused some financial injury and unavoidable bloodshed. It was the last thing we wished for and we want to stress that we don’t see any need for further
action. We want this to end here. You must see that if we truly sought to do real injury there were other targets and ...” Raul hesitated, “... personnel we could have singled
out.”

“So you targeted only what you felt was necessary to make a point? Am I to infer from this that the victims of the attacks were considered token and that I should be grateful it
wasn’t much worse?”

He wondered why Uka was putting such an emphasis on the elimination of some hired guns. He was all for the use of diplomacy to smooth ruffled feathers but the Kosovar was being churlish. He had
agreed with Madrigal that the meeting might get fairly heated at some stage, harsh words might be exchanged, but they had anticipated that any rancour would focus on more substantive issues like
the damaged supply lines or lost inventory. Perhaps this was a negotiating tactic. If he complained strongly about the loss of contracted labour, he might think he was building a case for
compensation on the material loss. If that was it, Cervantes realised he needed to adopt a stronger stance to illustrate that Madrigal’s desire to be reasonable had its limits. Uka was aware
of Cervantes’, position and closeness to Madrigal; this awareness provided Raul with a degree of protection. Emboldened by this, he decided to be more direct in the hopes of getting the
conversation back where he wanted it.

“Lubomir, let’s be honest with each other, this could indeed have been much worse,” Cervantes said. “You know some of the people Luis has to deal with and their
tendencies. Believe me, it’s a good thing that only Luis and I were involved in deciding what to target. It’s unfortunate anyone had to die but, frankly, these men can be easily
replaced.”

Uka’s nostrils flared and his face trembled. He threw the photograph he had been studying down to land at Cervantes’ feet. The Colombian looked questioningly at Uka whose stare bore
through him. Stooping over, Cervantes picked up the photograph.

“Tell me again, how I should be grateful for your restraint. I must be stupid or blind because no matter how long I look at this and the others, I can’t see it at all.”

Cervantes was so riveted by the image in his hands that he barely heard Uka. A feeling of dread overcame him as he realised that Uka blamed him for what it contained. He had seen many dead
bodies and more than a few had died at his own hand but the scene contained in the photograph was beyond anything he had ever witnessed.

“Who ... ?” he began.

“It’s clear to see what your intention was. You believed your visit, so close on the heels of Nisret’s torture, would have us cowering in fear.” The Kosovar shook with
rage as he uttered the words but then, with a noticeable effort, quelled all outward signs of emotion. “The calculation was that the brutal slaughter would be terrifying. We would gratefully
accept whatever subordinate role you’ve envisaged for us and be thankful that you stopped where you did. After all, if my cousin meant so little to you ... well, the object lesson
hasn’t been wasted.”